But Hicks was suspicious; so were the others, and their suspicions were fed by the mutterings and growls of Chudleigh, who showed a lack of tact remarkable even in an Englishman out of his own country. Then, to appease them, I went into some of the long explanations which I had said I wanted to avoid.
“That’s all very well,” broke in Hicks, “but if this man is an English officer, why is he not in the English uniform? I believe he is an Englishman, as you say; he talks like it, but tell me why he is dressed like a civilian.”
The others followed Hicks’s lead and began to cry:
“Spy! Spy! Spy!”
In truth I felt alarm.
“This is no spy,” I said. “He is Captain Chudleigh, of the English army.”
“He may be Captain Chudleigh and a spy too,” said Hicks coolly. “I am not sure about the Chudleigh part, but I am about the spy part.”
“Hang him for good count!” cried some of the others, who seemed to be raw recruits. The talk about the Indian atrocities was fresh in their minds, and they were in a highlyinflammatory state. I recognized a real and present danger.
“Men,” I cried, “you are going too far! This prisoner is mine, and it is of importance that I take him back to the army.”
But my protest only seemed to excite them further. In truth they took it as a threat. Some of them began to demand that I too should be hung, that I was a Tory in disguise. But the body of them did not take up this cry. The bulk of their wrath fell upon Chudleigh, who was undeniably an Englishman. Two or three of the foremost made ready to seize him. I was in no mind to have all my plans spoiled, and I snatched a musket from a stack and threatened to shoot the first man who put a hand on Chudleigh.
Chudleigh himself behaved very well, and sat, quite calm. The men hesitated at sight of the rifle, and this gave me a chance to appeal to their reason, which was more accessible now since they seemed to be impressed by my earnestness. I insisted that all I had said was the truth, and they would be doing much injury to our cause if they interfered with us. I fancy that I pleaded our case with eloquence, thoughI ought not to boast. At any rate they were mollified, and concluded to abandon their project of hanging Chudleigh.
“I’ve no doubt he deserves hanging,” said Hicks, “but I guess we’ll leave the job for somebody else.”
Chudleigh was about to resent this, but I told him to shut up so abruptly that he forgot himself and obeyed.
I was anxious enough to be clear of these men, countrymen though they were; so we bade them adieu and tramped on, much strengthened by the rest and food.
“Captain,” said I to Chudleigh, though trying to preserve a polite tone, “you do not seem to appreciate the beauty and virtue of silence.”
“I will not have my country or my countrymen insulted,” replied he in most belligerent tones.
“Well, at any rate,” I said, “I had to save your life at the risk of my own.”
“It was nothing more than your duty,” he replied. “I am your prisoner, and you are responsible for my safety.”
Which I call rank ingratitude on Chudleigh’s part, though technically true.
It was late in the day when we met the detachment, and dark now being near at hand, it was apparent that we would have to sleep in the woods, which, however, was no hardship for soldiers, since the nights were warm and the ground dry. When the night arrived I proposed to Chudleigh that we stop and make our beds on the turf, which was rather thick and soft at that spot. He assented in the manner of one who had made up his mind to obey me in every particular.
But before lying down I had the forethought to ask from Chudleigh a guarantee that he would not walk away in the night while I was asleep. I reminded him of his pledge that he would not attempt to escape, barring a rescue.
But he took exceptions with great promptness, claiming with much plausibility, I was fain to admit, that his pledge did not apply in such a case. He argued that if I lay down and went to sleep he was no longer guarded; consequently he was not a prisoner; consequently he would go away. Since he chose to stick to his position, I had no way to drive him from it, whether reasonable or unreasonable.
“Then I will bind you hand and foot,” I said.
He reminded me with an air of triumph that I had nothing with which to bind him, which unfortunately was true.
“What am I to do?” I said as much to myself as to him.
“Nothing that I can see,” he replied, “but to guard me while I sleep.”
Without another word he lay down upon the turf, and in less than two minutes his snore permeated the woods.
Reflecting in most unhappy fashion that if it were not for the great interests of our campaign I would much rather be his prisoner than have him mine, I sat there making fierce efforts to keep my eyelids apart.
About midnight I reached the limit of endurance. I was firm in my resolution that I would not sleep, and while still firm in it I slept. When I awoke it was a fine day. For a moment I was in a cold terror, feeling sure Chudleigh had slipped away while I slept the sleep that had overpowered me. But a calm, evenly attuned snore that glided peacefully through the arches of the woods reassured me.
Chudleigh was lying on his back, sleeping. He was as heavy as a log, and I knew that he had not known a single waking moment since he lay down the night before. I dragged him about with rudeness and he opened his eyes regretfully. Presently he announced that he felt very fresh and strong, and asked me where I expected to get breakfast. He said he wassorry for me, as he knew I must be very tired and sleepy after sitting up on guard all night.
I gave him no answer, but commanded him to resume the march with me. We walked on with diligence through a breakfastless country. Chudleigh, though suffering from hunger, was frequent in his expressions of sympathy for me. He said he had the utmost pity for any man who was compelled to sit up an entire night and watch prisoners; but I replied that I throve upon it, and then Chudleigh showed chagrin.
We had the good fortune, about two hours before noon, to find the house of a farmer, who sold us some food, and cared not whether we were American or British, Tory or nothing, so long as we were good pay.
A half hour after leaving this place I decided that we ought to recross the river. Chudleigh offered no objection, knowing that he had no right to do so, being a prisoner. I had no mind to take another swim, so I made search along the bank for something that would serve as a raft, and was not long in finding it.
Having proved to Chudleigh that it was as much to his benefit as to mine to help me, we rolled a small tree that had fallen near thewater’s edge into the river, and, sitting astride it, began our ride toward the farther shore. I had a pole with which I could direct the course of our raft, and with these aids it seemed rather an easy matter to cross. I allowed the tree to drift partly with the current, but all the time gently urged it toward the farther shore.
We floated along quite peacefully. So far as we could see we were alone upon the broad surface of the river, and the shores too were deserted. I remarked upon the loneliness of it all to Chudleigh, and he seemed impressed.
“Chudleigh,” I said, “we’re having an easier time recrossing the river than we had crossing it.”
“So it would seem,” he replied, “but we won’t unless you look out for the current and those rocks there.”
I had twisted my face about while speaking to Chudleigh, and in consequence neglected the outlook ahead. We had reached a shallow place in the river where some sharp rocks stuck up, and the water eddied about them in manner most spirited. The front end of our log was caught in one of these eddies and whirled aboutwith violence. I was thrown off, and though I grasped at the log it slipped away from me. I whirled about to recover myself, but the fierce current picked me up and dashed me against one of the projecting rocks. With a backward twist I was able to save myself a little, but my head struck the cruel stone with grievous force.
I saw many stars appear suddenly in the full day. Chudleigh and the log vanished, and I was drifting away through the atmosphere. I was not wholly unconscious, and through the instinct of an old swimmer made some motions which kept me afloat a little while with the current.
I had too little mind left to command my nerves and muscles, but enough to know that I was very near death. In a dazed and bewildered sort of way I expected the end, and was loath to meet it.
The blue sky was rapidly fading into nothing, when some voice from a point a thousand miles away called to me to hold up a little longer. The voice was so sharp and imperious that it acted like a tonic upon me, and brain resumed a little control over body. I tried toswim, but I was too weak to do more than paddle a little. The voice shouted again, and encouraged me to persevere.
In truth I tried to persevere, but things were whizzing about so much in my head and I was so weak that I could do but little. I thought I was bound to go down, with the whole river pouring into my ears.
“That’s a good fellow!” shouted the voice. “Hold up just a minute longer, and I’ll have you safe!”
I saw dimly a huge figure bearing down upon me. It reached out and grasped me by the collar.
“Steady, now!” continued the voice. “Here comes our tree, and we’ll be safe in twenty seconds!”
The tree, looking like a mountain, floated down toward us. My rescuer reached out, seized it, and then dragged us both upon it. Reposing in safety, mind and strength returned, and things resumed their natural size and shape. Chudleigh, the Hudson River running in little cascades from his hair down his face, was sitting firmly astride the log and looking at me with an air of satisfaction.
“Chudleigh,” I said, “I believe you have saved my life.”
“Shelby,” he replied, “I know it.”
“Why didn’t you escape?” I asked.
“You compel me to remind you that I am a gentleman, Mr. Shelby,” he said.
That was all that ever passed between us on the subject, though I reflected that I was not in his debt, for if he had saved my life I had saved his.
We had no further difficulty in reaching the desired shore, where the sun soon dried us. We continued our journey in very amicable fashion, Chudleigh no doubt feeling relief because he was now in a measure on even terms with me. I, too, was in a state of satisfaction. Unless Burgoyne had retreated very fast, we could not now be far from the lines of the American army, and I thought that my troubles with my prisoner were almost at an end. I hoped that Burgoyne had not been taken in my absence, for I wished to be present at the taking. I also had in my mind another plan with which Chudleigh was concerned. It was a plan of great self-sacrifice, and I felt the virtuous glow which arises from such resolutions.
We paused again, by and by, for rest, the sun having become warm and the way dusty. Chudleigh sat down on a stone and wiped his damp face, while I went to a brook, which I had seen glimmering among the trees, for a drink of fresh water. I had just knelt down to drink when I heard a clattering of hoofs. Rising hastily, I saw two men riding toward Chudleigh. Though the faces of these two men were much smeared with dust, I recognized them readily and joyfully. They were Whitestone and Adams.
My two comrades evidently had seen and recognized Chudleigh. They raised a shout and galloped toward him as if they feared he would flee. I came down to the edge of the wood and stopped thereto see at my leisure what might happen.
Chudleigh sat upon the stone unmoved. As a matter of course he both saw and heard Whitestone and Adams, but he was a phlegmatic sort of fellow and took no notice. Whitestone reached him first. Leaping from his horse, the gallant sergeant exclaimed:
“Do you surrender, Captain?”
“Certainly,” said Chudleigh.
“It’s been a long chase, captain, but we’ve got you at last,” continued the sergeant.
“So it seems,” said Chudleigh, with the same phlegm.
Then I came from the wood and cut the sergeant’s comb for him; but he was so glad to see me again that he was quite willing to lose the glory of the recapture. He explained that he had been overtaken by Adams. Together they had wandered around in search of Chudleigh and me. Giving up the hunt as useless, they had obtained new horses and were on the way back to the army.
We were now four men and two horses, and the men taking turns on horseback, we increased our speed greatly.
Whitestone and Adams were in fine feather, but there was one question that yet bothered me. I wanted to take Chudleigh back in his own proper British uniform, and thus save him from unpleasant possibilities. I did not see how it could be done, but luck helped me.
We met very soon a small party of Americans escorting some British prisoners. Telling my companions to wait for me, I approached the sergeant who was in charge of the troop.Making my manner as important as I could, and speaking in a low tone, as if fearful that I would be overheard—which I observe always impresses people—I told him that one of our number was about to undertake a most delicate and dangerous mission. It chanced that I had some slight acquaintance with this sergeant, and therefore he had no reason to doubt my words, even if I am forced to say it myself.
He pricked up his ears at once, all curiosity, and wanted to know the nature of the business. I pointed to Chudleigh, who was standing some distance away with Whitestone and Adams, and said he was going to enter the British lines as a spy in order to procure most important information.
“A dangerous business, you say truly. He must be a daring fellow,” said my man, nodding his head in the direction of Chudleigh.
“So he is,” I said, “ready at any moment to risk his life for the cause, but we need one thing.”
He asked what it was.
“A disguise,” I said. “If he is to play the British soldier, of course he must have a British soldier’s clothes.”
I made no request, but I looked suggestively at the British prisoners. The sergeant, who was all for obliging me, took the hint at once. He picked out the very best uniform in the lot, and made the man who wore it exchange it for Chudleigh’s old clothes. Chudleigh, who had been learning wisdom in the last day or two, was considerate enough to keep his mouth shut, and we parted from the sergeant and his troop with many mutual expressions of good will. The uniform did not fit Chudleigh, nor was it that of an officer, but these were minor details to which no attention would be paid in the press of a great campaign.
The matter of the uniform disposed of, we pressed forward with renewed spirit, and soon reached the first sentinels of our army, which we found surrounding that of Burgoyne. It was with great satisfaction that I delivered Chudleigh to my colonel.
The colonel was delighted at the recapture, and praised me with such freedom that I began, to have a budding suspicion that I ought to be commander in chief of the army. However, I made no mention of the suspicion. Instead, I suggested to the colonel that as Chudleighhad escaped once, he might escape again, and it would be well to exchange him for some officer of ours whom the British held.
The colonel took to the idea, and said he would speak to the general about it. In the morning he told me it would be done, and I immediately asked him for the favor of taking Chudleigh into the British camp, saying that as I had been his jailer so much already, I would like to continue in that capacity until the end.
The colonel was in great good humor with me, and he granted the request forthwith. As I left to carry out the business, he said, “The exchange is well enough, but we’ll probably have your man back in a few days.”
In truth it did look rather odd that the British should be exchanging prisoners with us upon what we regarded as the unavoidable eve of their surrender, but they chose to persevere in the idea that we were yet equal enemies. Nevertheless, the coils of our army were steadily tightening around them. All the fords were held by our troops. Our best sharpshooters swept the British camp, and it is no abuse of metaphor to say that Burgoyne’s army was rimmed around by a circle of fire.
I found Chudleigh reposing under a tree, and told him to get up and start with me at once.
“What new expedition is this?” he asked discontentedly. “Can not I be permitted to rest a little? I will not try to escape again?”
I told him he was about to be exchanged, and I had secured the privilege of escorting him back to his own people.
“That’s very polite of you,” he said.
I really believe he thought so.
For the second time I entered Burgoyne’s camp under a white flag, and saw all the signs of distress I had seen before, only in a sharper and deeper form. The wounded and sick were more numerous and the well and strong were fewer. It was a sorely stricken army.
But I did not waste much time in such observations, which of necessity would have been but limited anyhow, as the British had no intent to let any American wander at will about their camp and take note of their situation. When we were halted at the outskirts, I asked the officer who received us for Albert Van Auken, who, I said, was a friend of mine and of whose safety I wished to be assured. He wasvery courteous, and in a few minutes Albert came.
Albert was glad to see me, and I to see him, and as soon as we had shaken hands I approached the matter I had in mind.
“Madame Van Auken, your mother, and your sister, are they well, Albert?” I asked.
“Very well, the circumstances considered,” replied Albert, “though I must say their quarters are rather restricted. You can see the house up there; they have been living for the last three or four days and nights in its cellar, crowded up with other women, with a hospital beside them, and the cannon balls from your army often crashing over their heads. It’s rather a lively life for women.”
“Can’t I see your sister, Mistress Catherine?” I asked. “I have something to say to her about Chudleigh.”
“Why, certainly,” he replied. “Kate will always be glad to see an old playmate like you, Dick.”
He was so obliging as to go at once and fetch her. She looked a little thin and touched by care, but the added gravity became her. She greeted me with gratifying warmth. We hadstepped a little to one side, and after the greetings, I said, indicating Chudleigh:
“I have brought him back as sound and whole as he was the day he started on this campaign.”
“That must be very pleasant to Captain Chudleigh,” she said with a faint smile.
“I saved him from a possible death too,” I said.
“Captain Chudleigh’s debt of gratitude to you is large,” she replied.
“I have taken great trouble with him,” I said, “but I was willing to do it all on your account. I have brought him back, and I make him a present to you.”
She looked me squarely in the eyes for a moment, and said, as she turned away:
“Dick, you are a fool!”
Which I call abrupt, impolite, ungrateful, and, I hope, untrue.
I returned to our camp downcast over the failure of good intentions, and convinced that there was no reward in this life for self-sacrifice. Perhaps if I were to fall in the fighting and Kate Van Auken were to see my dead body, she would be sorry she had called me a fool. There was comfort in this reflection. The idea that I was a martyr cheered me, and I recovered with a rapidity that was astonishing to myself.
An hour’s rest was permitted me before my return to active duty, and I had some opportunity to observe our tactics, which I concluded must be most galling to the enemy. Some clouds of smoke hung over both encampments, and the crackling of the rifles of the sharpshooters and the occasional thud of the cannon had become so much a matter of course, that we scarce paid attention to them.
When my hour of leisure was over I was assigned to duty with an advanced party close up to Burgoyne’s camp. It was much to my pleasure that I found Whitestone there too. It was but natural, however, that we should be often on duty together, since we belonged to the same company.
Whitestone, according to his habit, had made himself comfortable on the ground, and, there being no law against it, was smoking the beloved pipe, which like its master was a veteran of many campaigns. From his lounging place he could see a portion of the British camp.
“Mr. Shelby,” said he, “this is like sitting by and watching a wounded bear die, and giving him a little prod now and then to hurry the death along.”
So it was, and it was no wonder the soldiers grew impatient. But I was bound to confess that the policy of our generals was right, and by it they would win as much and save more life.
There was nothing for me to do, and I kept my eyes most of the time on the house Albert had pointed out to me. Crouched in its cellarI knew were scared women and weeping children, and doubtless Kate and her mother were among them. Once a cannon ball struck the house and went through it, burying itself in the ground on the other side. I held my breath for a little, but I was reassured by the thought that the women and children were out of range in the cellar.
Thus the day passed in idleness as far as I was concerned. I spent it not unpleasantly in gossip with Whitestone. The nightfall was dark, and under cover of it the British ran a twenty-four pounder forward into a good position and opened fire with it upon some of our advanced parties. My first warning of the attack was a loud report much nearer to us than usual, followed by a hissing and singing as if something were stinging the air, and then a solid chunk of iron struck the earth with a vengeful swish a few yards from us. A cloud of dirt was spattered in our faces, stinging us like bees.
When we had recovered from our surprise, and assured ourselves we were neither dead nor dying, we made remarks about chance, and the probability that no other cannon ball wouldstrike near us during the campaign. Just as the last of such remarks were spoken we heard the roar and heavy boom, followed by the rapid swish through the air, and the cannon ball struck a full yard nearer to us than the first. We used vigorous and, I fear, bad language, which, however, is a great relief sometimes, especially to a soldier.
“They’ve pushed that gun up too close to us,” said Whitestone. “It’s among those trees across there. The darkness has helped them.”
We were of opinion that the men with the gun had our range—that is, of our particular party—and we thought it wise and healthy to lie down and expose the least possible surface. I awaited the third shot with much curiosity and some apprehension.
Presently we saw a twinkle, as of a powder match, and then a great flash. The ball shrieked through the air, and with a shiver that could not be checked we waited for it to strike. True to its predecessors, it followed nearly the same course and smashed against a stone near us. One of our men was struck by the rebounding of fragments, of iron or stone, and severely wounded. It was too dark to see well, but hisgroans spoke for him. Whitestone and I took hold of him and carried him back for treatment. While we were gone, one man was slain and another wounded in the same way. In the darkness that British cannon had become a live thing and was stinging us. Some of our best sharpshooters were chosen to slay the cannoneers, but they could aim only by the flash of the gun, and the men loading it had the woods to protect them. The bullets were wasted, and the troublesome hornet stung again and again.
We were perplexed. Our pride as well as our safety was concerned. The idea came to me at last.
“To fight fire with fire is an old saying,” I remarked to Whitestone.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Why, we must have a cannon too,” I said.
He understood at once, for Whitestone is not a dull man. He volunteered to get the cannon and I went along with him to help. We presented our claim with such urgency and eloquence that the artillery officer to whom we went was impressed. Also he was near enoughto see how damaging and dangerous the British cannon had become.
“You can have Old Ty,” he said, “and be sure you make good use of him.”
I did not understand, but Whitestone did. He knew Old Ty. He explained that Old Ty, which was short for “Old Ticonderoga,” was a twenty-four pounder taken at Ticonderoga early in the war by Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys. It had done so much service and in so many campaigns that the gunners had affectionately nicknamed the veteran Old Ty in memory of the fortress in which he had been taken.
“I’ve seen Old Ty,” said Whitestone. “He’s been battered about a good lot, but he’s got a mighty bad bark and a worse bite.”
In a few minutes the groaning of wheels and the shout of the driver to the horses announced the approach of Old Ty. I stood aside with respect while the gun passed, and a grim and fierce old veteran he was, full worthy the respect of a youngster such as I felt myself to be.
Old Ty was of very dark metal, and there were many scars upon him where he had received the blows of enemies of a like caliber.A wheel which had been struck by a ball in the heat of action was bent a trifle to one side, and Old Ty rolled along as if he were a little lame and didn’t mind it. His big black muzzle grinned at me as if he were proud of his scars, and felt good for many more.
Just behind the gun walked a man as ugly and battered as Old Ty himself.
“That’s Goss, the gunner,” said Whitestone. “He’s been with Old Ty all through the war, and loves him better than his wife.”
On went the fierce and ugly pair like two who knew their duty and loved it.
The night, as usual after the first rush of darkness, had begun to brighten a bit. We could see the British cannon, a long, ugly piece, without waiting for its flash; yet its gunners were protected so well by fresh-felled trees and a swell of the earth that our sharpshooters could not pick them off. They were in good position, and nothing lighter than Old Ty could drive them out of it.
The British saw what we were about and sought to check us. They fired more rapidly, and a cannon ball smashed one of the horses hitched to Old Ty almost to a pulp. ButGoss sprang forward, seized one wheel, and threw the veteran into place.
Old Ty had a position much like that of his antagonist, and Goss, stroking his iron comrade like one who pets an old friend, began to seek the range, and take very long and careful looks at the enemy. Lights along the line of either army flared up, and many looked on.
“Lie flat on the ground here,” said Whitestone to me. “This is going to be a pitched battle between the big guns, and you want to look out.”
I adopted Whitestone’s advice, thinking it very good. Old Ty’s big black muzzle grinned threateningly across at his antagonist, as if he longed to show his teeth, but waited the word and hand of his comrade.
“There goes the bark of the other!” cried Whitestone.
The bright blaze sprang up, the British cannon roared, and hurled his shot. The mass of iron swept over Old Ty and buried itself in the hillside.
“Much bark, but no bite,” said Whitestone.
Old Ty, black and defiant, was yet silent.Goss was not a man who hurried himself or his comrade. We waited, breathless. Suddenly Goss leaned over and touched the match.
Old Ty spoke in the hoarse, roaring voice that indicates much wear. One of the felled trees in the British position was shattered, and the ball bounded to the right and was lost to sight.
“A little bite,” said Whitestone, “but not deep enough.”
Old Ty smoked and grew blacker, as if he were not satisfied with himself. They swabbed out his mouth and filled it with iron again.
Where I lay I could see the muzzles of both cannon threatening each other. The Briton was slower than before, as if he wished to be sure. Goss continued to pat his comrade by way of stirring up his spirit. That did not seem to me to be needed, for Old Ty was the very fellow I would have chosen for such a furious contention as this.
The two champions spoke at the same instant, and the roar of them was so great that for the moment I thought I would be struck deaf. A great cloud of smoke envelopedeither cannon, but when it raised both sides cheered.
Old Ty had received a fresh blow on his lame wheel, and careened a little farther to one side, but the Briton was hit the harder of the two. His axle had been battered by Old Ty’s ball, and the British were as busy as bees propping him up for the third raid.
“Rather evenly matched,” grunted Whitestone, “and both full of grit. I think we shall have some very pretty sport here.”
I was of Whitestone’s opinion.
I could see Goss frowning. He did not like the wound Old Ty had received, and stroked the lame wheel. “Steady, old partner,” I heard him say. “We’ll beat ’em yet.”
All at once I noticed that the lights along the line had increased, and some thousands were looking on at the battle of the two giants.
“Old Ty must win!” I said to Whitestone. “We can’t let him lose.”
“I don’t know,” said Whitestone, shaking his head. “A battle’s never over till the last shot’s fired.”
The Briton was first, and it was well that we were sheltered. The ball glanced along OldTy’s barrel, making a long rip in the iron, and bounded over our heads and across the hill.
“Old Ty got it that time,” said Whitestone. “That was a cruel blow.”
He spoke truth, and a less seasoned veteran than Old Ty would have been crushed by it. There was a look of deep concern on Goss’s face as he ran his hand over the huge rent in Old Ty’s side. Then his face brightened a bit, and I concluded the veteran was good for more hard blows.
The blow must have had some effect upon Old Ty’s voice or temper. At any rate, when he replied his roar was hoarser and angrier. A cry arose from the British ranks, and I saw them taking away a body. Old Ty had tasted blood. But the British cannon was as formidable as ever.
“The chances look a bit against Old Ty,” commented Whitestone, and I had to confess to myself, although with reluctance, that it was so.
Goss was very slow in his preparations for the fourth shot. He had the men to steady Old Ty, and he made a slight change in theelevation. Again both spoke at the same time, and Old Ty groaned aloud as the mass of British iron tore along his barrel, ripping out a gap deeper and longer than any other. His own bolt tore off one of the Briton’s wheels.
“The Englishman’s on one leg,” said Whitestone, “but Old Ty’s got it next to the heart. Chances two to one in favor of the Englishman.”
I sighed. Poor Old Ty! I could not bear to see the veteran beaten. Goss’s hard, dark face showed grief. He examined Old Ty with care and fumbled about him.
“What is he doing?” I asked of Whitestone, who lay nearer the gun.
“I think he’s trying to see if Old Ty will stand another shot,” he said. “He’s got some big rips in the barrel, and he may leave in all directions when the powder explodes.”
Old Ty in truth was ragged and torn like a veteran in his last fight. The Briton had lost one wheel and was propped up on the side, but his black muzzle looked triumphant across the way.
The British fired again and then shoutedin triumph. Old Ty, too, had lost a wheel, which the shot had pounded into old iron.
“Old Ty is near his end,” said Whitestone. “One leg gone and holes in his body as big as my hat; that’s too much!”
Old Ty was straightened up, and Goss giving the word, the shot was rolled into his wide mouth. Then the gunner, as grim and battered as his gun, took aim. Upon the instant all our men rushed to cover.
Goss touched the match, and a crash far outdoing all the others stunned us. With the noise in my ears and the smoke in my eyes I knew not what had happened. But Whitestone cried aloud in joy. Rubbing my eyes clear, I looked across to see the effect of the shot. I saw only a heap of rubbish. Old Ty’s bolt had smote his enemy and blown up the caisson and the cannon with it.
Then I looked at Old Ty to see how he bore his triumph, but his mighty barrel was split asunder and he was a cannon no longer, just pieces of old iron.
Sitting on a log was some one with tears on his hard, brown face. It was Goss, the gunner, weeping over the end of his comrade.
At one o’clock in the morning I went off duty, and at five minutes past one o’clock I had begun a very pleasant and healthful slumber. At eight o’clock I awoke, and found Whitestone sitting by a little fire cooking strips of bacon, some of which he was so kind as to give me.
Whitestone’s face was puffed out in the manner of one who has news to tell, and I was quite willing that he should gratify himself by telling it to me.
“What is it, Whitestone?” I asked. “Has the British army surrendered while I slept?”
“No,” said Whitestone, “and it may not surrender after all.”
“What!” I exclaimed.
“It’s just as I say,” said Whitestone,lighting the inevitable pipe. “It may not surrender after all.”
“What has happened?”
Whitestone’s cheeks continued to swell with a sense of importance.
“Clinton’s advancing with seven thousand men,” he said.
“That’s nothing,” I said. “Clinton’s been advancing for weeks, and he never gets near us.”
“But he is near us this time, sure enough,” said the sergeant very seriously.
I was still unbelieving, and looked my unbelief.
“It’s as I say,” resumed the sergeant; “there is no doubt about it. Just after daylight this morning some skirmishers took a messenger from Clinton, who bore dispatches announcing his arrival within a very short time. It seems that Clinton is much farther up the river than we supposed, and that his army is also much larger than all our reckonings made it. I guess that with re-enforcements he got over the fright we gave him.”
This in truth sounded like a matter of moment. I asked Whitestone if he was sure of what he reported, and he said the news was allover the camp. I must confess that I felt as if it were a personal blow. I had looked upon the capture of Burgoyne as a certainty, but the arrival of Clinton with seven thousand fresh men would be sure to snatch the prize from us. It looked like a very jest of fate that we should lose our spoil after all our labors and battles.
“What’s to be done, Whitestone?” I asked gloomily.
“In a case of this kind,” he replied, “I’m glad that I’m a humble sergeant, and not a general. Let the generals settle it. Take another piece of the bacon; it’s crisp and fresh.”
“Have you seen this captured messenger?” I asked.
“No,” replied Whitestone. “They have him in a tent over yonder, and I think the officers have been busy with him, trying to pump him.”
As soon as I finished the bacon I walked about the camp to see if I could learn anything further concerning the matter, in which attempt I failed. I saw, however, its effect upon the army, which vented its feelings largely in the way of swearing. The soldiers expected we would have to leave Burgoyne and turn southward tofight Clinton. Some said luck was always against us.
I was interrupted in my stroll by a message from my colonel to come at once. I hurried to him with some apprehension. He had expressed his high confidence in me of late, and, as I have said before, these high confidences bring hard duties.
But the matter was not so difficult as I had expected.
“Mr. Shelby,” said the colonel, “we took prisoner this morning a man bearing important dispatches from Clinton to Burgoyne—you have heard about it, doubtless; it seems to be known all over the camp—and I am directly responsible for his safe keeping for the time being. He is in that tent which you can see on the hillside. Take three men and guard him. You need not intrude upon him, though; he seems to be a very gentlemanly fellow.”
Of course I chose Whitestone as one of my three men, and we began our guard over the tent. I understood from the gossip Whitestone had picked up that the generals were debating what movement to make after the important news obtained, and probably they wouldexamine the prisoner again later on. It was not at all likely that the prisoner, placed as he was in the center of our camp, could escape, but there might be reasons for keeping him close in the tent; so our watch was very strict.
Nevertheless, Whitestone and I chatted a bit, which was within our right, and tried to guess what would be the result of the campaign if we had to turn southward and fight Clinton, with Burgoyne on our rear. Doubtless some of these comments and queries were heard by the prisoner, whose feet I could see sticking out in front of the tent flap, but whose body was beyond our view. But I did not see that it mattered, and we talked on with freedom. Once I saw the prisoner’s feet bob up a bit, as if he suffered from some kind of nervous contraction, but I made very slight note of it.
The debate of the generals lasted long, and I inferred, therefore, that their perplexity was great. Whitestone and I ceased to talk, and as I, having command of the little detachment, was under no obligation to parade, musket on shoulder, I sat down on a stone near the flap of the tent and made myself as comfortable as I could. From my position I could still seethe prisoner’s boots, a substantial British pair, of a kind that we could envy, for most of the time we were nearly bare of foot, sometimes entirely so.
The camp was peaceful, on the whole. The rattle of drums, the sound of voices, rose in the regular, steady fashion which becomes a hum. The prisoner was silent—unusually silent. He seemed to have no curiosity about us, and to prefer to remain in the shadow of his tent. In his place, I would have had my head out looking at everything. I noticed presently the attitude of his boots. They were cocked up on their heels, toes high in the air. I inferred immediately that the man was lying flat on his back, which was not at all unreasonable, as he probably needed rest after traveling all night.
The hum of the camp became a murmur, and it was answered by a slighter murmur from the tent. The prisoner was snoring. He was not only flat upon his back, but asleep. I felt an admiration for the calmness of mind which could turn placidly to slumber in such an exciting situation. A curiosity about this prisoner, already born in me, began to grow. He was most likely a man worth knowing.
I concluded that I would take a look at the sleeping Englishman despite my orders. I did not mention my idea to Whitestone, because I thought he might object, and hint it was none of my business to go in. I stooped down and entered the tent, which was a small one. As I surmised, the prisoner was lying upon his back and was fast asleep. The snore, which became much more assertive now that I had entered the tent, left no doubt about his slumbers. Yet I could not see his face, which was far back under the edge of the tent.
I reached back and pulled the tent-flap still farther aside, letting in a fine flow of sunlight. It fell directly upon the face of the prisoner, bringing out every feature with the distinctness of carving.
My first emotion was surprise; my second, wrath; my third, amusement.
The prisoner was Albert Van Auken.
I do not claim that mine is the acutest mind in the world; but at a single glance I saw to the bottom of the whole affair, and the desire to laugh grew very strong upon me. It had not been twenty-four hours since I wastalking to Albert Van Auken in Burgoyne’s camp, and here he was a prisoner in our camp, bringing dispatches from Clinton, down the river, to Burgoyne. I believe some things—not all things.
I perceived that the bright light shining directly into Albert’s eyes would soon awaken him. In truth he was yawning even then. I sat down in front of him, closing my arms around my knees in the attitude of one who waits.
Albert yawned prodigiously. I guessed that he must have been up all the previous night to have become so sleepy. He would have relapsed into slumber, but the penetrating streak of sunshine would not let him. It played all over his face, and inserting itself between his eyelids, pried them open.
Albert sat up, and, after the manner of man, rubbed his eyes. He knew that some one was in the tent with him, but he could not see who it was. I had taken care of that. I was in the dark and he was in the light.
“Well, what is it you wish?” he asked, after he had finished rubbing his eyes.
I guessed that he took me for one of thegeneral officers who had been examining him. I have a trick of changing my voice when I wish to do so, and this was one of the times when I wished.
“I am to ask you some further questions in regard to the matters we were discussing this morning,” I said.
“Well!” said Albert impatiently, as if he would like to be done with it.
“According to the dispatches which we secured when we took you,” I said, “Sir Henry Clinton was very near at hand with a large army.”
“Certainly,” said Albert, in a tone of great emphasis.
“It is strange,” I said, “that we did not hear of his near approach until we took you this morning. Our scouts and skirmishers have brought us no such news.”
“It is probably due to the fact, general,” said Albert politely, “that we captured your scouts and skirmishers as we advanced northward. Our celerity of movement was so great that they could not escape us.”
“That was remarkable marching, in truth,” I said admiringly. “You Englishmen are asrapid in movement as you are strenuous in battle.”
“Thank you, general,” said Albert, with complacent vanity. I felt a strong inclination to kick him. I hate Tories, and, in particular, those who would have people think they are Englishmen.
“I believe you said Sir Henry Clinton had several thousand men with him,” I resumed.
“I did not say it,” replied Albert, “but most unfortunately it was revealed in the dispatches which you captured upon me. I may add, however, that the number is nearer eight thousand than seven thousand.”
I understood the impression he wished to create, and I was willing to further his humor.
“Eight thousand with Sir Henry Clinton,” I said, as if musing, “and Burgoyne has six thousand; that makes fourteen thousand, all regular troops, thoroughly armed and equipped otherwise. We can scarce hope to capture both armies.”
“Not both, nor one either,” said Albert in derision. “As a matter of fact, general, I think you will have some difficulty in looking after your own safety.”
“By what manner of reasoning do you arrive at that conclusion?” asked I, wishing to lead him on.
“Oh, well, you know what British troops are,” said Albert superciliously; “and when fourteen thousand of them are together, I imagine that troubles have arrived for their enemies.”
My inclination to kick him took on a sudden and violent increase. It was with the most extreme difficulty that I retained command over my mutinous foot.
“Perhaps it is as you assert,” I said musingly. “In fact there would seem to be no doubt that it is best for us to let Burgoyne go, and retreat with what rapidity we can.”
“Of course! of course!” said Albert eagerly. “That is the only thing you can do.”
Now a desire to laugh instead of a desire to kick overspread me; but I mastered it as I had the other.
“I wish to tell you, however,” I said, assuming my politest manner, “and in telling you I speak for the other American generals, that however little we are pleased with the news you bear, we are much pleased with thebearer. We have found you to be a young gentleman of courtesy, breeding, and discernment.”
“Thank you,” said Albert in a tone of much gratification.
“And,” I resumed, “we have arrived at a certain conclusion; I may add also that we have arrived at that conclusion quickly and unanimously.”
“What is it?” asked Albert with eager interest.
“That we have met many graceful and accomplished liars in our time, but of them all you are the most graceful and accomplished,” I said with grave politeness, my tongue lingering over the long words.
Albert uttered something which sounded painfully and amazingly like an oath, and sprang to his feet, his face flushing red with anger or shame, I am uncertain which.
He raised his hand as if he would strike me, but I moved around a little, and the light in its turn fell on my face. He uttered another cry, and this time there was no doubt about its being an oath. He looked at me, his face growing redder and redder.
“Dick,” he said in a tone of deep reproach, “I call this devilish unkind.”
“The unkindness is all on your side, Albert,” I retorted. “You have given me more trouble in this campaign than all the rest of Burgoyne’s army—if that fellow Chudleigh be counted out—and here I have you on my hands again.”
“Who asked you to come into my tent?” said Albert angrily. “I heard you outside a while ago, but I did not think you would come in.”
“That was when your feet bobbed up,” I said. “You must retain more control over them, Albert. Now that I think of it, and trace things to their remote causes, that movement first stirred in me the curiosity to see your face, and not your feet only. Have them amputated, Albert.”
“What do you mean to do?” he asked with an air of resignation.
“Mean to do!” I said in a tone of surprise. “Why, I mean to retreat with all the remainder of our army as quickly as we can in order to get out of the way of those fourteen thousand invincible British veterans who will soon be united in one force.”
“Now stop that, Dick,” said Albert entreatingly. “Don’t be too hard on a fellow.”
“All right,” I replied; “go to sleep again.”
Without further ado I left the tent, and found Whitestone waiting outside in some anxiety.
“You stayed so long,” he said, “I thought perhaps the fellow had killed you.”
“Not by any means as bad as that,” I replied. “I found him to be a very pleasant young man, and we had a conversation long and most interesting.”
“About what?” Whitestone could not keep from asking.
“About many things,” I replied, “and one thing that I learned was of special importance.”
“What was that?”
“How to send Clinton and his eight thousand men back below Albany, hold Burgoyne fast, and continue the campaign as it was begun.”
“That’s a pretty big job,” said Whitestone, “for one man, and that one, too, rather young and not overweighted with rank.”
“Maybe you think so,” I said with lofty indifference. “But I can do it, and, what is more,I will prove to you that I can. You can stay here while I go down to the council of generals and tell them what to do.”
Not giving Whitestone time to recover, I stalked off in a state of extreme dignity.
I pressed into the council of the generals with an energy that would not be denied, also with some strength of the knee, as an officious aid-de-camp can testify even at this late day. As a matter of course, my information was of such quality that everybody was delighted with me and praise became common. Again I felt as if I ought to be commander in chief. Again I had sufficient self-sacrifice to keep the thought to myself.
As I left the room they were talking about the disposition of the prisoner who had tried to trick us into precipitate flight and the abandonment of our prey. This put an idea into my head, and I told it to a colonel near the door, who in his turn told it to their high mightinesses, the generals, who were wiseenough to approve of it, and, in truth, to indorse it most heartily.
I suggested that Albert be sent back to Burgoyne with the most gracious compliments of our commander in chief, who was pleased to hear the news of the speedy arrival of Clinton, which would greatly increase the number of prisoners we were about to take. I asked, as some small reward for my great services, that I be chosen to escort Albert into the British camp and deliver the message. That, too, was granted readily.
“You can deliver the message by word of mouth,” said one of the generals; “it would be too cruel a jest to put it in writing, and perhaps our dignity would suffer also.”
I was not thinking so much of the jest as of another plan I had in mind.
I found Whitestone keeping faithful watch at the tent.
“Well,” said he, with a croak that he meant for a laugh of sarcasm, “I suppose the generals fell on your neck and embraced you with delight when you told them what to do.”
“They did not fall on my neck, but certainly they were very much delighted,” I said;“and they are going to do everything I told them to do.”
“That’s right,” said Whitestone. “Keep it up. While you’re spinning a yarn, spin a good one.”
“It’s just as I say,” I said, “and as the first proof of it, I am going to take the prisoner as a present to Burgoyne.”
Turning my back on the worthy sergeant, I entered the tent, and found Albert reclining on a blanket, the expression of chagrin still on his face. To tell the truth, I did not feel at all sorry for him, for, as I have said before, Albert had been a great care to me.
“Get up,” I said with a roughness intended, “and come with me.”
“What are they going to do with me?” asked Albert. “They can’t hang me as a spy; I was taken in full uniform.”
“Nobody wants to hang you, or do you any other harm,” I said. “In your present lively and healthful condition you afford us too much amusement. We do not see how either army could spare you. Put your hat on and come on.”
He followed very obediently and saidnothing. He knew I held the whip hand over him.
“Sergeant,” I said to Whitestone, “you need not watch any longer, since the tent is empty.”
Then I took Albert away without another word. I had it in mind to punish Whitestone, who was presuming a little on his age and experience and his services to me.
I really could not help laughing to myself as I went along. This would make the third time I had entered Burgoyne’s camp as an escort—once with Chudleigh, once with Albert’s sister and mother, and now with Albert. I was fast getting to be at home in either camp. I began to feel a bit of regret at the prospect of Burgoyne’s speedy surrender, which would break up all these pleasant little excursions.
Albert showed surprise when he saw us leaving our camp and going toward Burgoyne’s.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“Nothing, except to take you back where you belong,” I said. “We don’t care to be bothered with you.”
“You hold me rather cheaply,” he said.
“Very,” I replied.
The return of Albert was an easy matter. I met a colonel, to whom I delivered him and also the message from our council. The colonel did not seem to know of Albert’s intended mission, for the message puzzled him. I offered no explanations, leaving him to exaggerate it or diminish it in the transmission as he pleased.
When I turned away after our brief colloquy, I saw Kate Van Auken, which was what I had hoped for when I asked the privilege of bringing Albert back. Her paleness and look of care had increased, but again I was compelled to confess to myself that her appearance did not suffer by it. There was no change in her spirit.
“Have you become envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary between the two camps, Dick?” she asked in a tone that seemed to me to be touched slightly with irony.
“Perhaps,” I replied; “I have merely brought your brother back to you again, Mistress Catherine.”
“We are grateful.”
“This makes twice I’ve saved him for you,” I said, “and I’ve brought Chudleigh back to you once. I want to say that if you have anyother relatives and friends who need taking care of, will you kindly send for me?”
“You have done much for us,” she said. “There is no denying it.”
“Perhaps I have,” I said modestly. “When I presented Chudleigh to you, you called me a fool. I suppose you are willing now to take it back.”
“I was most impolite, I know, and I’m sorry——”
“Oh, you take it back, then?”
“I’m sorry that I have to regret the expression, for, Dick, that is what you are.”
There was the faintest suspicion of a smile on her face, and I could not become quite as angry as I did on the first occasion. But she showed no inclination to take the harsh word back, and perforce I left very much dissatisfied.
When I returned to our camp I found much activity prevailing. It seemed to be the intention of our leaders to close in and seize the prize without further delay. No attack was to be made upon Burgoyne’s camp, but the circle of fire which closed him in became broader and pressed tighter. The number of sharpshooterswas doubled, and there was scarce a point in the circumference of Burgoyne’s camp which they could not reach with their rifle balls, while the British could not attempt repayment without exposing themselves to destruction. Yet they held out, and we did not refuse them praise for their bravery and tenacity.
The morning after my return I said to Whitestone that I gave the British only three days longer. Whitestone shook his head.
“Maybe,” he said, “and maybe not so long. They’ve been cut off at a new point.”
I asked him what he meant.
“Why, the British are dying of thirst,” he said. “They are in plain sight of the Hudson—in some places they are not more than a few yards from it—but our sharpshooters have crept up till they can sweep all the space between the British camp and the river. The British can’t get water unless they cross that strip of ground, and every man that’s tried to cross it has been killed.”
I shuddered. I could not help it. This was war—war of the kind that wins, but I did not like it. Yet, despite my dislike, I was to take part in it, and that very soon. It was knownthat I was expert with the rifle, and I was ordered to choose a good weapon and join a small detachment that lay on a hill commanding the narrowest bit of ground between the British camp and the river. About a dozen of us were there, and I was not at all surprised to find Whitestone among the number. It seemed that if I went anywhere and he didn’t go too, it was because he was there already.
“I don’t like this, Whitestone. I don’t like it a bit,” I said discontentedly.
“You can shoot into the air,” he said, “and it won’t be any harm. There are plenty of others who will shoot to kill.”
I could see that Whitestone was right about the others. Most of them were from the mountains of Virginia and Pennsylvania, backwoodsmen and trained Indian fighters, who thought it right to shoot an enemy from ambush. In truth this was a sort of business they rather enjoyed, as it was directly in their line.
As I held some official rank I was in a certain sense above the others, though I was not their commander, each man knowing well what he was about and doing what he chose, which was to shoot plump at the first human beingthat appeared on the dead line. A thin, active Virginian had climbed a tree in order to get a better aim, and shot with deadly effect from its boughs.
I sat down behind a clump of earth and examined my rifle.
“Look across there,” said Whitestone, pointing to the open space.
I did so, and for the second time that day I shuddered. Prone upon the ground were three bodies in the well-known English uniform. A pail lay beside one of them. I knew without the telling of it that those men had fallen in their attempt to reach the water which flowed by—millions and millions of gallons—just out of reach.
“It’s rather dull now; nobody’s tried to pass the dead line for an hour,” said Bucks, a man from the mountains of western Pennsylvania, with a face of copper like an Indian’s.
“Did any one succeed in passing?” I asked.
“Pass!” said Bucks, laughing. “What do you reckon we’re here for? No sirree! The river is just as full as ever.”
There was an unpleasant ring in the man’s voice which gave me a further distaste for thework in hand. Our position was well adapted to our task. The hill was broken with low outcroppings of stone and small ridges. So long as we exercised moderate caution we could aim and shoot in comparative safety. Bucks spoke my thoughts when he said:
“It’s just like shooting deer at a salt lick.”
But the dullness continued. Those red-clad bodies, two of them with their faces upturned to the sun, were a terrible warning to the others not to make the trial. Two of our men, finding time heavy, produced a worn pack of cards and began to play old sledge, their rifles lying beside them.
The waters of the broad river glittered in the sun. Now and then a fish leaped up and shot back like a flash, leaving the bubbles to tell where he had gone. The spatter of musketry around the circle of the British camp had become so much a habit that one noticed it only when it ceased for the time. The white rings of smoke from the burnt powder floated away, peaceful little clouds, and, like patches of snow against the blue sky, helped out the beauty of an early autumn day.
All of us were silent except the two menplaying cards. I half closed my eyes, for the sun was bright and the air was warm, and gave myself up to lazy, vague thought. I was very glad that we had nothing to do, and even should the time to act come, I resolved that I would follow Whitestone’s hint.
The two men playing cards became absorbed in the game. One threw down a card and uttered a cry of triumph.
“Caught your Jack!”
“All right,” said the other; “it’s only two for you, your low, Jack against my high, game. I’m even with you.”
I became interested. I was lying on my back with my head on a soft bunch of turf. I raised up a little that I might see these players, who could forget such a business as theirs in a game of cards. Their faces were sharp and eager, and when they picked up the cards I could tell by their expression whether they were good or bad.
“Four and four,” said one, “and this hand settles the business. Five’s the game.”
The other began to deal the cards, but a rifle was fired so close to my ear that the sound was that of a cannon. The echo ceasing, Iheard Bucks and the man in the tree swearing profusely at each other.
“He’s mine, I tell you!” said Bucks.
“It was my bullet that did it!” said the man in the tree with equal emphasis.
“I guess it was both of you,” put in Whitestone. “You fired so close together I heard only one shot, but I reckon both bullets counted.”
This seemed to pacify them. I looked over the little ridge of earth before us, and saw a fourth red-clad body lying on the greensward near the river. It was as still as the others.
“He made a dash for the water,” said Whitestone, who caught my eye, “but the lead overtook him before he was halfway.”
The two men put aside their cards, business being resumed; but after this attempt we lay idle a long time. Bucks, who had an infernal zeal, never took his eyes off the greensward save to look at the priming of his gun.
“I could hit the mark at least twenty yards farther than that,” he said to me confidently.
Noon came, and I hoped I would be relieved of this duty, but it was not so. It seemed that it would be an all-day task. The men tooksome bread and cold meat from their pouches and we ate. When the last crumb fell, a man appeared at the edge of the greensward and held up his hands. Bucks’s finger was already on the trigger of his gun, but I made him stop. The man’s gesture meant something, and, moreover, I saw that he was unarmed. I called also to the Virginian in the tree to hold his fire.